Hit and Run
by Kthonia
Summary: Even a sweet little songbird can be inspired to seek vengeance upon those who do wrong.


Hit and Run

_Thou cruel villain, thou hast killed my friend the dog.  
This deed of thine shall cost thee all thou art worth!_

-The Dog and The Sparrow  
Grimm's Fairy Tales

One trucker got up from the vinyl booth at the Cakes N' Shakes coffee shop. He left a handful of crumpled dollar bills next to his plate of half-eaten blueberry pie. He shuffled to the front door and burped on his way out. Afternoon sunlight flashed a corona around his silhouette; he was a dark hulk at the center of brightness.

"Thank you, sir, come again," said the waitress faking a cheerful smile at his back. She tugged smooth the dollar bills on her way to the cash register.

The trucker climbed into the cab of his 18-wheeler. Briefly, he checked his wristwatch. Not quite six o'clock, but he still had over three hours of driving from Portland to Bend and deliver his load of wines and liquor. Three more hours... His eyelids sagged. Several cups of coffee had not helped to cure his exhaustion.

He started up the diesel engine at the same time he fumbled through clutter for an unopened can of Red Bull. Empty cans clattered. "Damn," he growled.

Someone had parked their GMC pickup a little too close. Didn't people realize, he wasn't just a minivan that could pull out of a compact parking space? The trucker had taken pains to align his 18-wheeler's long trailer in such a way so he could exit the narrow parking lot. Now, with the GMC parked so close to his front grill, his only choices were to crush the flatbed, or back up halfway into the alleyway between the Cakes 'N Shakes and the dry cleaners.

The trucker worked the clutch and the gearshift. Lurching in the seat, he grunted to fight the stiffness in his shoulder, his neck, his lower back, and his calves. Every bone in his body ached. Weary and sore, he just wanted to get back onto Highway 405 and cruise to his destination. Once he unloaded, he'd be able to sleep for a few hours before heading back to Portland by tomorrow.

_Beep-beep-beep_, the 13-speed transmission shifted into reverse.

In one of his mirrors, he saw the waitress who had served his pie. She rushed out of the back door of the restaurant and into the alleyway. She did a sort of jumping jack dance in between the dumpster and a pile of flattened cardboard boxes. When she waved her arms, the trucker noticed her breasts jiggling. _Cute little breasts_, he thought. _Custard cups._ He saw her mouth was open—she was shouting at him—but over the deep rumblings of the truck's engine and the beeping of the backup alarm, he could not hear her voice.

The truck waggled over a small bump. _Probably the stack of cardboard_, he figured, allowing himself one more shameless peep into the mirror. The waitress turned her back to him, now focused on the mess he had made of the recycling bins. She wore black slacks that made her lower half all a shadow; he could not get a good view of her butt.

"Just my bad luck," he muttered, stomping the clutch and shifting into first gear.

##

The cell phone's screen lit up and an alarm clock icon emitted a jangling brassy tone. Detective Nick Burkhardt briefly looked away from his desktop computer. He tapped the iPhone's touch screen to shut off the ringing bell.

"What's that?" asked his partner Hank Griffin, sitting at the adjoining desk on Nick's right-hand side. "You got somewhere to be?"

"No," said Nick. "It's only Juliette's birthday tomorrow." He returned his attention to his computer where an autopsy and ballistics report from a drive-by gang shooting were tiled on the screen. This case appeared to be perpetrated by humans against humans. Just an ordinary police matter; nothing to do with Grimms or Wesen or the nightmarish fairy tale world that had shattered whatever he thought he knew of reality.

"Oh, watch out my man." Hank kicked his swivel chair wheeling a little closer to the corner of Nick's desk. "Birthdays are women's invention to trap you by the—"

Nick chuckled at his partner's cynicism. "Juliette's not like that."

"Yeah, she pretends to be 'not like that' until she's all about being 'like that.' Trust me, I'm telling you... Just because you think you know somebody inside and out, maybe for years, doesn't mean they can't suddenly turn the tables on you and become somebody else."

Nick worked hard to keep his expression neutral, to keep staring at the reports on his computer screen. _Like a monster-hunting Grimm._ More and more lately, the violent secrets distanced Nick from his police partner. Ashamed, he had started to think of Hank with an adjective: his _human_ partner. Until recently, he had thought of himself and Hank as fellow outsiders only because he was from New York and Hank was from Oakland. Their non-Portland-native status helped them bond instantly; from their first meeting, they simply clicked. They solved cases because they were two halves of the same mind, thinking along the same lines, following the same leads, tag-teaming their pursuit of suspects and clues. Until five months ago, when Nick's dying Aunt Marie had come to town with a trailer full of ancestral secrets. Now everything had changed.

"You and Juliette've been together, what, three years?"

"Yeah," said Nick.

"That's about the right time." Hank chuckled darkly as he rolled his chair back to his own place. Evening colors shined from the large picture window and glinted on the small gold hoop at Hank's left ear. "You've lasted longer than some marriages, but you're not married yet, so you start to wonder... Can you see yourself together three years from now?"

Nick rubbed his sore eyes. "I've got this handled, Hank."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!" Nick pulled open his desk drawer. A brown cardboard package with a bar-code shipping label nested cozily among the clutter of papers, crumpled file folders, a German-English dictionary, ripped-open envelopes, and a half-eaten bag of pretzels. "I ordered it from Amazon last week... Chilean poetry."

"Chilean poetry? Okay, I'm impressed."

"On the way home tonight, I'll stop by a stationery store on Fourth. I'll buy a birthday card, and they'll gift wrap the box for me. Reservations at the Olive Garden for seven-thirty tomorrow. I'm set."

Hank bobbed his head with nods of approval. "Okay, man, okay. You win"

Returning his stare to the computer screen, Nick murmured, "It's just like preparing a case for court. Get all your ducks in a row, and it's a slam dunk."

He had never thought to ask before, but lately Nick's mind was preoccupied with finding an excuse to ask Hank about something that had never needed to discuss. How did Detective Griffin handle it, every day, being different—being the only African-American cop in a predominately white police force, or living in a predominately white suburban neighborhood? When little old ladies saw Hank, and not knowing he was a cop, did they clutch their purses tighter? _Like the way Wesen look at me when they recognize me as being a Grimm?_ It was a conversation Nick was desperate to have but couldn't... He couldn't confide to his human partner that, yes, there be monsters in the world. At times, he wondered if he were human himself.

##

Strolling back from the bathroom down the hall, on the way Nick passed through the rows of plainclothes' desks where his fellow detectives were hard at work on their own cases: burglaries, arson, vandalism, domestic abuse, blackmail. Some officers were on the phone. Some typed reports. Human cops investigation human crimes on a fairly typical day. A couple of them had witnesses or victims sitting in straight-backed chairs giving statements.

One witness caught Nick's attention. _Do I know her?_ A woman about his own age with a pale complexion had brown hair styled to look like feathers swept back off her narrow face. She wore black jeans, a white shirt, and a green apron like a tool belt with pockets for ballpoint pens and a thick receipt book. The woman was crying and had been crying for a long time by redness of her eyes. The detective taking her statement—a guy named Quimby—offered her a tissue box.

The woman's head shimmered and morphed into a bird's head.

As Nick passed behind her chair, he looked back over his shoulder to study the details. Not a bird of prey... not like a _Steinadler_ or anything else he could recall from his late Aunt Marie's collection of logs and journals dating back several centuries of Grimm lore. This woman's feathery hair turned into soft brown feathers. Her nose and chin melded into a blunt-shaped beak. Her pale gray eyes enlarged to twice their size; kindly eyes that, even as a bird, were still crying.

"Thank you, Miss Turner," said the detective. "I'll look into it. Why don't you go home and take it easy?"

"Please find whoever did this!" she cried in a warbling voice. "That poor man... that poor man."

Even wracked with emotion, her voice sounded familiar. Each person's voice had a distinct timbre and tone, as unique as a face or a fingerprint. Nick had always impressed his friends with being able to name the actors doing voice-overs in commercials. When someone called on the phone, all they had to say was, "hi," and Nick pegged an I.D. every time. He felt sure that he knew this waitress, but not very well, and not for a long time.

Nick returned to his desk but swiveled his chair halfway around to observe her departure. Appearing human once more, she had a lithe lean frame and narrow hips. She walked in small, quick steps. She held her arms at her side and did not swing her hands.

"Carol Turner," he whispered, recognizing her from behind just as she passed through the double doors.

##

Nick ate the supper that Juliette made: tossed green salad from a bag; spaghetti from a jar; apple pie from a box. He smiled politely and nodded in all the right places, listening to Juliette talk about her day at the veterinary clinic.

"It's the abused animals that really break my heart," Juliette said. "What some people can do to a dog they wouldn't do their worst enemy."

"Yeah."

The brass-and-glass ceiling lamp shined from above and brought out rich auburn tones in Juliette's silky red hair. Pale skin enhanced the lively sparkle in her blue eyes. Tall, slender, and graceful, she posed like a Renaissance lady. Her silky blouse showed off her figure with an alluring mix of confidence, grace, and modesty. Gazing across the table to her innocent serenity, he thought, _I'm such a lucky guy._

After supper, they snuggled on the couch together and watched _American Idol_. Half a bottle of wine, a few warm kisses, and they wound up making a tangled mess of blankets in bed. Thoughts of violent legends or monsters lurking in the shadows melted away in the warmth of Juliette's arms. All in all, a wonderfully ordinary night. There had been too few of those lately.

Nick woke up in the dark. Glowing orange numbers showed him the time. 2:53.

He tried closing his eyes for a while and listened to Juliette softly breathing in her sleep. Sweet Juliette... Innocent Juliette... She had no idea of the horrors and miracles that he had seen in the last few months, ever since his dying Aunt Marie came to Portland towing a trailer full of monster-hunting equipment. Juliette had no idea that she was sleeping with a legendary Grimm. _I should tell her,_ was his every waking thought every time he looked in her eyes, every time he kissed her good-night or kissed her good morning or kissed her good-bye.

Nick slipped out of the warm blankets and, wearing only a T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, he went to the kitchen. The floor chilled his bare feet. He microwaved a mug of milk.

His thoughts strayed to the woman he had seen in the police station that day. According to the detective handling her case, Carol Turner had witnessed a hit-and-run in the alleyway behind the restaurant where she worked. Her statement described an 18-wheeler truck that knocked over several recycling cans and also ran over a homeless man. The vagrant had been sleeping in the alleyway for several months, and Carol had been feeding him scraps of leftovers from the restaurant.

_I saw him backing up_, said her statement printed in the case file. _I waved my arms. I screamed, but he didn't hear me. He rolled over that poor man, shifted gears, and just went on with his day._

Nick carried his mug of warm milk to the living room. Behind the t.v., floor-to-ceiling bookshelves held more than they were designed for. Juliette's collection of books from a lifetime of avid reading crossed topics and genres. _Angela's Ashes_ was next to _daVinci Code_, and veterinary textbooks mixed with coffee table travel books. The shelves warped sagging in the center. Hardbacks were crammed to a tight fit. Dog-eared detective paperbacks were turned sideways, squeezed on top of cookbooks.

Crouching down to floor level, Nick thumbed past a few of Juliette's photo albums and came to his own high school yearbooks. Senior year... Junior year... He pried out sophomore year and sat on the couch with it.

Glossy pages turned easily, releasing their long-closeted scent of ink and dust and glue. He flipped to the letter T and started skimming over the names he had not thought about in over a decade. Talbot... Thompson... Tortelli... Turner.

Carol Turner's black-and-white photograph smiled modestly from the page. Nick's friends in high school used to say she looked like Mandy Moore, but he didn't see the resemblance. Carol was just Carol, and no one else. It was an innate skill that he used as a detective: not superimposing the facial features of another person from memory and being able to clearly describe a suspect to a sketch artist. Now, like all of his natural skills, he had to wonder if it was part of being a Grimm, the ability to see clearly and recall in great detail what sort of monster had been observed.

He opened to the back cover that was a mosaic of scrawled signatures and irreverent doodles. Buried down among it all, written in lavender ink, was the message, "To Nicky... You know... XX OO."

Carol was not Nick's first kiss, but he knew for a fact that he was hers. They hadn't dated. They hardly knew each other. They didn't have anything in common but fourth-period English class and the St. Patrick's Day dance. Carol had gone to the dance with a flock of girlfriends who, one by one, picked up boys and left her alone by the punch bowl and corn chips. Something about her standing there under a banner of cardboard shamrocks drew Nick to her side. She looked like a bird who had fallen out of its nest and broke its wing. He said something stupid. She laughed. He asked her to dance. She agreed. He couldn't remember the song that played, but it happened to be a slow song and they shuffled through it awkwardly holding each other at the waist. The song's lyrics made her cry. Nick didn't think twice; he leaned in and kissed her.

Signing his yearbook was the last time he had seen her, until today.

##

"So hey," said Nick, catching up to detective Quimby walking in the hall. "Any leads on that hit-and-run?"

"Which hit-and-run?"

"The deliver truck... the homeless guy..."

Quimby passed through the archway to the main squad room that hummed with quiet conversation. Uniforms sat at their desks doing paperwork or talking on the phone.

"Oh yeah, yeah." Quimby with a rumpled trench coat sauntered to his desk and slumped down into his chair. He pawed at a few open file folders. "I called the trucking company and their insurance is gonna pay damages. Case closed."

"What?" Nick grabbed the edge of the desk as he leaned over the man's shoulder. A file folder lay open. Imitation typewriter font, printed off the computer, filled a page illustrated with digital photos of the dead man sprawled amid the scattered garbage. The report was signed at the bottom, rubber stamped with the date, two-hole punched, and ready to file away.

"Driver said he was sorry, didn't see the guy, didn't know it happened. The truck is an 18-wheeler; he could have crushed somebody's car and wouldn't feel it. He thought the waitress was yelling because he knocked over the garbage cans."

"That can't be right." Nick's mind reeled, fixating on the citation to a vehicle code. No wrong-doing; no criminal charges. "But a man is dead."

"Homeless guy sleeping in the alley," Quimby said with a weary sigh. His pudgy fingers slapped shut the file and tossed it to the out-going basket. "Shouldn't have been there in the first place. Hey, I know it sucks, but what can you do? There's no crime here. It's just an accident."

Nick walked slowly back to his desk, numb, speechless, and sat down. His memory clearly replayed Carol's voice saying, _that poor man... that poor man_.

His partner Hank asked, "You all right?"

"Yeah..." Nick gripped his mouse. His index finger twitched to click open his email inbox, but he could not focus on a single one. "No, actually, I'm not. I need to go... I, uh... I forgot to buy Juliette's birthday card and wrap her present. I'll take an early lunch."

"I'll go with you."

"No." Nick stood up, and in turning to pull his pea coat off the back of the chair, he avoided eye contact with his partner—his human partner. Lies tasted bitter; of course, he had already wrapped Juliette's present and stashed it under the seat of his car. "I'll be back."

##

On the way, he called Monroe to meet him at the Cakes 'n Shakes restaurant. Monroe the Big Bad Wolf—his best friend—dropped whatever he had been doing and agreed to meet him there.

"I heard they have a great veggie burger," Monroe said as he slid into the green vinyl booth. He shouldered out of his corduroy jacket and revealed a cardigan sweater of forest patterns in earthy tones. His uncombed, uncomb-able hair and scruffy goatee gave him the appearance of a Bohemian poet.

"My treat," Nick said. "Order whatever you want."

He put aside the laminated menu and watched the waitress behind the pie counter. Carol was soldiering on as best she could, but she made no eye contact with customers. She poured coffee from a glass carafe. She handed out plates of grilled and fried food. She tore slips off her receipt book and said blandly, "Thank you, have a nice day."

"Uh-oh," said Monroe.

Nick returned his attention to his tall friend sitting across the table. "What?"

"I shoulda known, it's never just lunch with you."

"What do you mean?" Nick asked, eyes wide to feign innocence. Monroe's frown made it clear that he wasn't as easily fooled as Hank.

"Aw man, I thought we could—just once—have a couple of burgers and some brews and talk about things other than... stuff. Do you ever ask me about my day? What's going on? How's the clock repair business?"

Nodding with a guilty sigh, Nick asked, "All right, how's the—"

"Don't bother. It's obvious why we're here." Monroe ticked his head in the direction of the pie counter.

Carol at the cash register smacked open a paper roll of quarters. Her delicate fingers sprinkled the coins into the drawer.

Nick leaned forward. He spoke in a hushed whisper. "What is she?"

Monroe plucked a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and quickly wrote on a paper napkin, _Rachespatz_. "They're sweet little songbirds until you piss 'em off, and then, watch out. What did she do, man?"

"Nothing." Nick tucked the paper napkin into the pocket of his pea coat.

"Yet." Monroe hunched over the table. "I'd leave a hefty tip, if I were you. Believe me, you do not want to get on those chicks' bad side."

Carol the waitress approached them with her receipt book in hand. "Are you ready to order?"

Nick stared up at her, unable to speak. Her eyes stared into his, and locked. In that moment, he remembered exactly which Backstreet Boys song had been playing at the St. Patrick's Day dance. _I don't care who you are... where you're from... what you did..._

"Oh my God," she gasped. "Nicky?"

"Yeah, uh, Carol... right?"

Monroe cocked an eyebrow curiously. "'Nicky?'"

Restraining an urge to kick his friend under the table, he explained, "We went to high school together. Carol, this is my friend Monroe."

A glance of recognition passed between the two—the _Blutbad_ and the _Rachespatz._ She held her ground as her whole posture became tense, on guard, but apparently she had toughened up since high school by serving burgers to bikers and truckers.

Carol turned back to the other half of the booth, and her mood softened. "So Nicky, how've you been?"

"Good. You?"

"Oh, y'know..." She shrugged her elbows like a songbird stretching its wings. "This and that, trying to build up a nest egg."

Monroe coughed into his fist.

Nick smiled.

Carol's face and head morphed again, in a flash, to the feathered cowl and beak of a songbird. Her enlarged eyes widened even more in shock and horror. Nick felt his cheeks flush hot at being seen. She recognized the Grimm.

"Oh no!" She dropped her receipt book. Whirling on her heels, she dashed away for the kitchen door.

Monroe shrugged. "There goes lunch."

Nick pursued her, slapping open the swinging door. He streaked past the sizzling vats of oil, the griddle with burger patties in various shades of red and brown, and the bewildered cooks with grease spattered aprons.

He burst out the back door into the alley. He caught Carol by the elbow and yanked her to a stop in between the dented garbage cans and a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. Tiny and slender, about five-foot-three with shoes, Carol made a futile slapping effort at resistance. Nick held her by the shoulders and clamped her arms to her sides.

"Stop! I'm not going to hurt you!" He leaned in to stare closely into her eyes.

"But you're a..." Her jaw shuddered; she could not even say the word. _Grimm_.

He released his grip and took a step back. He allowed her the illusion of free will, that she could fly away if she chose to go. For a moment, they stood there tensely, daring each other to move.

More quietly, he said, "I'm not going to hurt you."

##

The three of them found a quiet place away from people, in a small park across the street. A willow tree draped its tangled branches overhead. Rose bushes bloomed in vivid bouquets of red and white and yellow. Carol sat on a bench, Nick at her side, and Monroe stood nearby with arms folded.

"I'm a cop," Nick said, watching her shiver and not from the cool breeze. "I saw you at the precinct yesterday. I came here to see if you're all right, after what you witnessed. I came as a friend, Carol, not as a... you know."

She glanced nervously in Monroe's direction. "You bullied _him_ into working for you?"

"Hey," Monroe said. "No one bullies me."

"We're friends," Nick added.

"Really?" Her eyes tick-tocked left and right, from the Blutbad to the Grimm, and settled on staring at Nick.

"Yes, really. It's the twenty-first century, and we don't have to always do things the way they've always been. What we _are_..." Nick paused to think of how weighted with meaning that simple little word had become lately. "...it doesn't have to dictate what we choose to do. Okay? I'm a cop. Monroe fixes clocks. And you're a nice girl who witnessed a tragic accident."

She stopped shivering. "It wasn't an accident."

"I'm sorry, but the truck driver gave his statement. He didn't see the homeless guy sleeping in the alley."

"But I waved and screamed to try and get him to stop!"

Nick put a hand on her shoulder. "I know, but he thought you were upset about him knocking over the garbage cans."

"Garbage cans? Seriously, garbage cans? Would I give a rat's tail about the garbage cans? He's lying to save his own ass, can't you see that? What kind of cop are you? Poor ol' Joe had a whole set-up with a blue plastic tarp and a beach umbrella and a shopping cart full of everything he owned in the world—which wasn't much. He was unemployed. After seventeen years of working like a dog, they tossed him out in the street. He had Type 2 diabetes but couldn't afford the medication. If only he was a heroin addict, they have a free clinic for that! He used to joke that maybe he should rob a gas station and get thrown in jail. At least in jail they take care of you."

By now, her face had flushed red. She sobbed in gargling coughs with no sign of stopping. Nick folded his arms around her and cuddled her head to his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said into her soft feathery hair. "I'm so sorry."

"Humans," she blubbered into the upturned collar of his pea coat. "They call us the monsters, and they treat each other like that."

"I know. I know."

Monroe tapped his other shoulder. "Whoa, dude. I think I saw your girlfriend."

"What?" Nick looked around at the flow of passing cars and anonymous pedestrians.

"A bicycle went by. She was wearing a helmet but I saw some long red hair." Monroe shifted guiltily on his feet. His eyes glinted blood-colored for a moment, perhaps reflecting the rose blossoms all around, or perhaps not. "Your girl's got some really red... _red_ hair. Does she dye it, or is that natural?"

Nick unwrapped himself from Carol who was still crying but not so intensely. He pulled forth his wallet from his jacket's inner pocket, opposite of where he holstered his sidearm. Out of the tightly packed clutter of credit cards, sandwich receipts, and dollar bills, he pried loose one of his business cards printed with the logo of the Portland police department. On the back, he quickly jotted down some numbers. "This is my cell. Anytime you need anything... You hear me? _Anything_... You call me."

Carol tucked his business card in her apron. "Thanks Nicky."

##

The Olive Garden was an oasis of the ordinary where couples and families and friends enjoyed warm, colorful food. Ceiling fans turned, creating a light refreshing breeze scented with baked bread. A mellow song by Cat Stevens played from the overhead speakers, _Oo-oo-oh baby, baby it's a wild world..._

Nick scooped up more salad from the large bowl they shared between them. A waitress asked in passing, "More bread sticks, Sir?" and Nick shook his head, no.

_Monroe was wrong. He didn't see Juliette's bicycle. She didn't see me. Or did she? Would she say anything if she did? Of course she would. We don't hold back. We don't keep secrets... except lately. _

Juliette smiled and everything seemed all right. She was lovely and serene, and he'd started to think of her more and more as _normal_. Not so long ago, he had been attracted to how different Juliette was from the other women he had dated. Her intelligence. Her skill as a veterinarian. Her adventurous college years of backpacking in Argentina. Lately, he caught himself enjoying her silence more than her witty conversation. Tonight, on her birthday dinner, he wanted only to admire her statuesque beauty from across the table.

"Tough day at work?" she asked.

Nick answered, "I don't want to talk about it."

The cell phone vibrated in his back pocket. Without thinking, he pulled out the phone and looked at the text message. _Wanna get together for drinks tonight? Carol._

"Is that Hank?" she asked.

"No." He returned the iPhone to his back pocket.

Juliette focused on her salad, slicing a large chunk of Romaine in half before she speared it with her fork. "Who was it?"

"Nobody."

"It looked important."

"No."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh." Nick tore a bread stick in half. His steel knife glinted as he scraped a pat of butter from its golden foil wrapper.

Juliette took a long, slow drink of her iced tea, draining it halfway until the avalanche of ice cubes clattered in the glass.

_Why doesn't she just ask me? If she saw me hugging another woman today, why not just say so? Should I explain? I have nothing to be ashamed of, comforting a witness to a tragic accident. But if she didn't see me, then I'll open a can of worms. Did I remember to put the yearbook back on the shelf? Oh God, did I put the yearbook away? _

His cell phone vibrated his back pocket again. He ignored it.

"I had lunch with Monroe today," Nick said, and watched her closely for a reaction. It was the same way he would stare at a witness across the interrogation table, looking for any sign—a blink, a flinch, a twitch.

Juliette continued quietly chewing her salad. "Monroe, that's um... your friend?"

"He's a guy that I met while working a case, and he's pretty interesting. I was thinking we could invite him over for dinner sometime, if you don't mind. He knows a lot of folklore and history. He speaks German. You'd enjoy talking to him."

She looked straight at him, and Nick's blood ran cold. For all his abilities to see monsters in their true form, he was unable to guess what his girlfriend was really thinking.

"He's, uh... He's cool," Nick stammered. "I want you to know my friends."

"Sure." She smiled slightly but her cheeks did not lift her eyes. "Invite him over."

Nick's mouth went dry as he imagined the scene of all three of them sitting around the dinner table in his own home. All three of them. Together.

Squad car lights flashed at the window. People eating dinner turned their heads to look, and some of them weren't exactly people. Nick scanned the dining room for fangs and horns, saw none, and chose to live and let live. He ducked his head sideways, hoping none of the _Wesen_ spotted him.

A commotion disturbed the restaurant's entrance, followed by Hank striding quickly around the potted fake plants. He wore his police badge clipped to the front of his canvas coat.

Nick stood up. "What's wrong?"

"Sorry to break up the dinner," Hank said, looming over the salad and breadsticks.

"That's okay." Juliette's smile wavered at the corners.

Nick bent over and pipped a dry kiss to her lips that tasted of vinaigrette. "Happy birthday."

##

The crime scene was in a warehouse like so many of the unmarked warehouses in the northeast section of the city. Squad cars with their strobe flashing lights had set up a perimeter. The M.E.'s truck had arrived. Forensic technicians wearing blue latex gloves were busy scooping samples into plastic bags. Cameras flashed in several places at once—a macabre paparazzi.

Delivery trucks lined up at the open warehouse doors but nobody was going anywhere. Truck drivers in blue jeans and warehouse workers in coveralls loitered around their forklifts. "Can we go yet?" one of the drivers loudly complained. "We've got product to move out. Deadlines to meet. Hey, who's in charge here?"

Nick and Hank traded a glance and silently agree to ignore the man. They walked shoulder-to-shoulder through the yellow tape barrier.

They met up with Sergeant Wu near a smashed window. "Burglar alarm went off at a few minutes before eight," the officer explained, matching their stride and walking ahead of the two detectives. He became their tour guide on a stroll into the warehouse main floor. Broken crates had spilled their contents of almonds, rice, apples, and swags of brussels sprouts still on the stem. Puddles of red wine, glittering with shards of broken glass, shined beneath fluorescent bars.

"Surveillance cameras?" Hank asked.

"Warehouse manager doesn't know how they work. They're too..." Sergeant Wu consulted a paper notepad in his hand. "...complicated high-tech, he says, recently installed. Everything's digital. He's calling the security company to send a guy out."

Hank looked up to the warehouse rafters where a couple of pigeons perched. Then he looked aside to the shadowy corners, and all around the wreckage and devastation. "It's farmers market type stuff. Nothing worth stealing, really. Definitely nothing worth killing over. Maybe someone trying to smuggle drugs got caught in the act?"

The dead man lay sprawled on his back at the center of the puddle of wine. A bullet hole was a dot in his forehead.

"One of their truck drivers," Sergeant Wu said. "A certain mister George Draeger."

Nick bent over to get a better look at the handgun lying next to the body. "A thirty-eight Smith & Wesson, old school. Looks like he was trying to defend himself or the warehouse. Maybe he confronted the vandals?"

Hank pointed to an angular dent in the door of a truck's cab. "This looks like a ricochet."

Standing up straight, Nick held out his left arm and imagined the angles of a bullet's trajectory. "You could be right."

"That would be ironic," Hank said with a cynical smirk. "Try to shoot the punk that's wrecking the place, and wind up shooting yourself in the head."

Nick turned once more to studying the dead man. Puffy cheeks, dark circles under the eyes, scruffy beard not shaved in weeks; he probably looked half dead before someone killed him. "Draeger... Draeger... Why is that name familiar?"

Sergeant Wu looked to his notebook. "Warehouse manager said that he was recently involved in a hit-and-run of a homeless man."

"You're kidding!" Nick stepped closer to the sergeant, and his shoes squelched in the puddle of red wine. "The hit-and-run behind the Cakes 'n Shakes two days ago?"

"Uh..." Sergeant Wu flipped the pages of his small notebook. "I think so."

Hank came to Nick's side. "You know something?"

_Rachespatz_. Monroe's description replayed in Nick's mind. _They're sweet little songbirds until you piss 'em off, and then, watch out._

"I'm not sure." Nick backed up, avoiding eye contact, his thoughts whirling around the conflicting images of a sweet young girl crying at a high school dance and a bloody wine-soaked corpse on the cold cement floor. "I might have an idea, but I need to check a few things first. Hank, you... uh, can you coordinate with the forensics team here?"

"Sure, but do you need any—"

"No, no thanks. I'm following a crazy hunch. If I come up with a tangible lead, I'll let you know."

##

A five minute phone call to the precinct got him a home address for Carol Turner, and Nick drove across town to her apartment complex near the renovated riverfront. He parked on the curb and, getting out, looked up at the looming tower of dim windows. The building looked to be a hundred years old, at least, with blocky Italianate architecture. Pigeons cooed at the eaves of the roof. Carol's unit was on the sixth and top floor.

Nick entered through an antique door with a beveled glass window panel. He paused by the bank of tarnished copper mailboxes. Drawing out his iPhone, he sent a return message to the text. _I'd like that drink. Are you home?_

A jagged staircase spiraled sharply up the center, like a lighthouse. Nick started jogging up the flights of creaky wooden stairs—second floor, third floor, fourth floor. Cell phone in one hand, and slapping the corner of the handrail with every turn, by the fifth floor his heartbeat had reached a euphoric cardio rate. One more flight to go.

_Sorry I changed my mind. This really isn't a good time for me, Nicky._

He stopped a few steps short of the top floor. Using only his left thumb, he texted, _Are you home?_

Slowly, he advanced one foot ahead of the other. Beads of sweat broke out at his hairline. His right hand reached under his jacket for the sidearm he wore in a shoulder holster. Cautious, he did not draw out his weapon yet. Step by step, he crept closer to the number of her apartment door.

His cell phone vibrated with an incoming text. _What about your girlfriend?_

Light beneath the door shined out to the hallway's carpeting. He returned the iPhone to his back pocket. Now he drew his sidearm and checked it.

With two knuckles, he tapped on the door. "Carol?"

"Oh my God, what are you doing here?"

"Let me in. We need to talk."

Silence. Then she answered, "I'd rather not," from very close to the door, her voice muffled against the thin wood. She had probably seen him through the peep hole lens.

"I'm sorry, Carol." He rolled his eyes heavenward, searching for answers, but all he could see was a dusty smoke detector in the ceiling. "I'm not just here as a friend. I'm here as a cop, and I need you to let me inside."

"Go away! Get a warrant."

He closed his eyes briefly. _I don't need one for probable cause_. Nick hurled himself at the door. Locks held; chains held; but the flimsy door frame splintered off bringing all the shiny brass hardware with it.

Carol was already running for the open window, but Nick was faster. He caught her twiggy arm. She fell sideways, down to the carpet, and tried to drag him off-balance with her. Perhaps it was his police training or his instincts as a Grimm that kept him on his feet. He loomed straddling over her and thrust his gun's square barrel into her face. Breathing hard and heavy, he knew how threatening he must have looked.

Once more, her features briefly morphed into a delicate sparrow. She spoke from a bird's beak.

"I didn't do a thing," she said. "Not one thing! I went there to insult him and threaten him with a wrongful death lawsuit. When he saw me, he got furious and chased me. It was he that smashed the crates and the wine bottles. It was he that fired off a shot that ricocheted and hit him in the head. His own wickedness turned back on him. He got what he deserved."

Nick rolled her onto her stomach and deftly snapped the handcuffs on her wrists. "We'll see if the surveillance video corroborates that story. In the meantime, I've taking you into custody on suspicion of murder."

"On what evidence, detective?" She put a sarcastic lilt on the word. "Did I ever make a threat against that son-of-a-bitch? Read my statement; I never uttered one cross word about him."

"You were outraged." Nick heaved her up to stand on her own feet. Hair disheveled, tank top sagging off one shoulder, she had the rough look of having flown through a storm. Yet her bright eyes shined defiance.

"A lot of people are outraged about a lot of things, but that doesn't bring Portland's finest to break down their door. This is profiling!" Trembling with strength, now, she sneered up into his face. "You're only here because I'm a _Rachespatz_ and you're a—"

"Stop talking!" He hauled her, stumbling and staggering toward the broken door. "You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up that right, anything you say to me can and will be used against you in a court of law..."

##

Morning sunlight glared through the slats of Captain Renard's window screen. As Nick sat facing his captain's desk, he tried not to squint at the brightness; squinting would not be a good expression for a man being reprimanded.

"Would you like to see it again, detective?" Captain Renard pointed to the computer screen mounted on his old-fashioned wooden desk. The digital surveillance video from the warehouse had just played.

"No thank you, sir."

"You're sure? Because we could keep replaying it all day long, in case we missed something."

Carol never appeared on the video. The truck driver had chased shadows and flapping pigeons; he had smashed the crates and overturned boxes all by himself; he had fired the shot that ricocheted into his own forehead. Nick's report had stated that she admitted to being at the scene, quoting her exact words, "...to insult him and threaten him with a wrongful death lawsuit." Yet the surveillance video from digital cameras covering every entrance to the warehouse did not show her arrival or departure. The computer marked the video with a running counter of date and time, accurate down to a tenth of a second.

Captain Renard asked, with all seriousness, "Do you have any workable theories to explain the testimony in your report? Can you speculate on how Ms. Turner allegedly got inside the warehouse, confronted Mr. Draeger, worked him up into a rage during which he accidentally shot himself, and then allegedly exited the warehouse before eight-fifteen—all without being seen by anyone?"

"I don't know, sir." All of the windows in the warehouse were locked, but the skylights were open. That was how the pigeons got inside, but of course, he could not suggest to Captain Renard that Carol Turner could fly.

"Or maybe you'd like to watch the surveillance video of Ms. Turner's apartment building, again?" Renard's hand hovered over the computer mouse, ready at a click to bring up the blurry black-and-white images transferred from an overused VHS tape. "She entered the front door at six-thirty and did not exit until nine-twenty when she was dragged out, handcuffed by you. Her alibi is as air tight as a nuclear submarine. It's an old building, not up to code by a long shot. There's no back door. Iron bars are welded on the lobby windows. The landlord is going to face some stiff fines for not installing a fire escape... but that's not the problem we're talking about right now, is it."

"No, sir."

The captain clasped his hands and leaned forward over his desk's green felt blotter. Keen eyes, an aquiline nose, a calm steady voice that resonated with quiet authority, Renard was a man born to be a captain. Though he was obviously upset, Renard never broke his cool for a second. "What the hell went wrong here, Nick? What made you think that Ms. Turner had anything to do with this?"

"It was a..." Nick looked down at his own hands folded limply across his knees. "A hunch."

"Mmm-hmmm." Captain Renard rose to his feet and strolled to the window. Taller than average, he had a confident, almost regal grace to his stance. He gazed thoughtfully out of the slats to survey the street outside. "You're a better detective than this, Burkhardt. I expect more from you than this half-cocked Dirty Harry crap that exposes our department to a false arrest and harassment lawsuit."

"Yes, sir."

"Be honest with me, Nick," said the captain, softening his tone to that of an understanding confessor. "Tell me what it was about this woman that made you think she could turn into a vigilante?"

Words choked up in Nick's throat. The truth screamed and pounded at the inside of his skull. _I've just discovered that I'm a Grimm, like my murdered Aunt Marie, like my murdered parents, and for the past several months I've been fighting Siegbarstes and Lausenschlanges and Skalenzahns at the __same time as a Big Bad Wolf has become my best friend, and if I tell my partner, or my girlfriend, or __especially you a single word of the incredible things I've seen, you'll think I'm crazy... or worse, you'll believe me, and it will shatter everything you think you know of the world._

"I thought..." Eyes closed, Nick shook his head. "I was wrong. I'm sorry."

The captain sighed with something close to disappointment. "You're on suspension for three days."

##

Nick and Juliette snuggled on the couch and watched a cooking show on the food network. He occasionally remarked, "That looks really good," and Juliette glanced out from her book of Chilean poetry to agree.

His three days of suspension was almost up. By tomorrow morning, he'd be back at work as if nothing had happened. Hank had called earlier in the afternoon to say it was a quiet week and he was getting caught up on his backlog of cold cases.

Monroe had also called around dinner time to report on his unofficial investigation. Carol had quit her job at the Cakes n' Shakes, left her apartment, and left town. She gave her landlord a forwarding address to a Holiday Inn in Seattle that would only be good for a couple of weeks. Since she paid up everything, left behind everything, and signed off relinquishing her lease and security deposit, the landlord let her go without a squawk. Monroe said that was the way of _Rachespatz—_they didn't stay in one nesting place for very long.

"I met up with a girl that I went to high school with," Nick blurted during the commercial.

Juliette did not look up from her book of poetry and slowly turned the page. "Oh?"

"She witnessed a hit-and-run that killed a homeless man. She came to the precinct to give a statement, and she was... upset."

"I can imagine."

Nick kept staring straight ahead at the t.v. "I didn't know her all that well in school, but I felt sorry for her. Y'know? She was a loner, a straggler, and the other girls picked on her."

"High school sucks."

"Yeah," Nick agreed. "So I caught up with her at the Cakes n' Shakes where she worked as a waitress."

"'Worked'?" Juliette raised her gaze out of her book.

"She quit."

"Oh?"

"She left town day before yesterday."

Juliette closed her book and put it down in her lap. "Why?"

Still watching the t.v., Nick said, "Because I later arrested her on suspicion of homicide. I accused her of a vigilante killing of the hit-and-run driver."

"Oh, that's awful. But you said she left town? Did she skip out on bail?"

"She wasn't on bail. The charges were never filed. We had no evidence putting her at the scene, no evidence from the scene at her apartment, and she had a foolproof alibi."

Juliette's pale forehead crinkled a bit, puzzled. "I don't understand. Why did you—"

"Forget it. I screwed up. The truth is, I'm not taking three days personal leave right now. I'm... I'm on suspension." He turned to her now, for the first time, and looked her straight in the eyes. "I should've told you. I'm sorry."

Juliette kissed him, and he closed his eyes sinking into it. For those few brief moments, everything was all right; everything was _normal_.

"You know," she said, breathing into his face. "I saw you the other day on a park bench with some girl. Was that her?"

"Yeah, I was following up on her witness statement and she started to kind of fall apart. What you saw..." Nick slipped his arm in between Juliette and the sofa cushion. His strong arm drew her closer. "Believe me, she wasn't an old girlfriend. She's just someone I knew and felt sorry for."

"I know." Juliette pecked him another quick kiss. "That's what makes you such a great guy. You really care about helping people who need help."

He leaned in, aimed for more kissing, but Juliette pulled back. Her gentle hand pressed to the front of his shoulder held him off.

"But you were suspended for three days and didn't tell me! Really, Nick, you need to be honest with stuff like this... important stuff."

_Honest_. The word washed over him and through him like cold water. "I'm sorry. You're right, honey, I should've... I will... In the future, I will."

Juliette must have sensed a change in his mood. She raised her book of poetry and resumed reading. Nick returned to watching a stranger on t.v. cooking food that he would never taste.

THE END


End file.
